Chapter 8: The Cook's Surrender

The galley smelled of old grease and burnt sugar, the heat of a banked fire still radiating from the iron stove bolted to the bulkhead. Copper pots hung in rows above a scarred wooden worktable, and the deck beneath Zugonda's feet was tacky with spilled syrup and blood that had dried to a brown smear sometime in the night.

He pushed the quiet grey man ahead of him through the narrow door, the pike pressed between the man's shoulder blades. The hostage moved without resistance, his hands still open at his sides, his breath coming in quick, shallow pulls. Behind them, the tall woman with the keloid scars came through last, one hatchet in her fist, the other tucked through her waistband, her bare feet silent on the sticky planks.

The mess was empty. Tables overturned. A bench splintered across the middle. A scatter of tin cups and a broken bottle and the greasy smear of something that had been spilled and trodden into the wood.

But the galley—the galley was cooking.

Steam rose from a pot hung over the banked fire, and the smell of boiled salt pork and dried peas cut through the grease. A single lantern burned on the worktable, and by its light Zugonda saw the cook.

He was a massive man, shirtless in the heat, his arms thick as hawsers, his apron stained with a week's worth of work. He stood at the table with his back to the door, his hands deep in a mass of dough, and he did not turn around.

"I heard you coming," the cook said. His voice was deep and calm, the voice of a man who had decided already how this would go. "Heard you from three decks down. You make a lot of noise for a quiet man."

Zugonda did not answer. He pressed the pike harder into the hostage's back, and the quiet grey man made a small sound and shuffled forward half a step.

The cook turned.

He looked at the hostage. He looked at the tall woman with the hatchets. He looked at Zugonda's chain, his cat, his boarded forearm, the pistol tucked through his belt. He looked at the blood on all three of them.

Then he reached under his apron and came up with a flintlock pistol, already cocked, and set it on the table between them.

"I was saving this," the cook said, "for the captain. But you'll do."

He did not pick up the pistol. He left it lying on the scarred wood, its muzzle pointed at nothing, its pan primed. A gesture. A choice.

Zugonda understood.

He pushed the hostage forward again, steering him around the edge of the worktable, and the quiet grey man went to his knees without being told and folded his hands in his lap and became a piece of the furniture.

The cook watched him go with something like disappointment.

"There's another one," he said. "In the locker. The captain said to keep her fed." He jerked his chin at the far bulkhead. "She's been screaming all night. I'd be grateful if you took her with you."

Zugonda crossed to the locker. The door was barred with a length of iron, the same kind of bar they used on the hatches below. He lifted it, set it aside, and pulled the door open.

The woman inside scrambled back, pressing herself against the far wall of the narrow space. Her skin was cafe au lait—that warm, pale brown that came from generations of mixing, lighter than the others he had freed, almost honeyed in the lantern light. Her hair had been hot-combed once, the front section pressed straight before she was taken, and the straight strands hung in uneven lengths against her temples while the rest of her hair had sprung back into tight, coiling curls. Her wide nose was flared with fear, her thick lips parted, her brown eyes fixed on him with the animal wariness of something that had been cornered too many times.

She was naked. Her body was soft and full, her breasts heavy, her hips wide, and her skin carried a faint sheen of sweat that caught the light. The air around her smelled of earth and musk and the faint, sharp undertone of fear-sweat—a smell that was not clean, not dirty, but something in between. Her skin was warm to the touch, almost hot, and her facial angles were softer than the women from deeper in the hold, her bone structure closer to the surface.

She had not been in the hold long.

He stepped back and held out his hand.

She stared at it. At the blood on his knuckles. At the chain wrapped around his forearm. At his shaven head and his filed teeth and his glowing chocolate skin.

Then she took his hand, and he pulled her out of the locker, and she stood swaying in the lantern light with her arms wrapped around herself.

The cook had not moved. He stood at the table with his hands flat on the wood, the pistol still lying between them, his eyes on Zugonda.

"There's powder in the cabinet," he said. "And shot. Take what you need."

Zugonda found the cabinet. A powder horn, stoppered and waxed. A bag of lead balls. A pouch of wadding. A spanner and a ramrod. He set them on the table next to the cook's pistol and began to load.

He worked faster this time. Powder down the barrel. Ball and wadding. Rammed home. Priming powder in the pan. Half-cock, then full. He picked up the cook's pistol, checked the load, and tucked it through his belt beside the first.

Two shots now. Two conversations.

He looked at the cook.

The cook looked back at him. "I'm not going to fight you," he said. "I've got no stake in this ship. I just cook."

Zugonda believed him. He left the quiet grey man on his knees by the table, took the cafe-au-lait woman by the wrist, and led her toward the door.

The tall woman with the keloid scars followed, her hatchets still in her hands.

The galley mess behind them stayed silent and still, the cook standing at his table with his hands flat on the wood, the hostage kneeling beside him, the fire crackling in its iron belly.

The cafe-au-lait woman walked close to Zugonda, her shoulder brushing his arm, her breath still coming in quick, shallow pulls. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the air between them, and the smell of her—that earthy, musky scent—followed him through the door and into the passage beyond.

The passage led aft, past a row of empty berths and a rack of boarding pikes, and ended at a ladder that climbed to the deck above.

Zugonda stopped.

He looked at the cafe-au-lait woman. She looked back at him, her lips parted, her brown eyes dark in the lantern light.

She did not speak. She did not need to.

Her hand came up and touched his chest, her fingers warm and trembling against his skin. She traced the line of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the edge of the cut on his forearm. Her touch was light, almost questioning, as if she were asking permission without words.

He did not move.

She stepped closer. Her body pressed against his, her soft breasts flattening against his chest, the heat of her cunt through his torn loincloth. Her hips began to move—a slow, rolling rhythm, deep and instinctive, the same rhythm he had felt from the others.

She wanted him. She wanted the weight of him, the stretch of him, the proof that she was alive and free and that the nightmare was over.

He lifted her.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her cunt pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through the fabric. She reached down, freed him, guided him to her entrance. She was slick and hot and tight, and when he pushed inside her, she gasped against his neck—a sound that was half cry, half sigh.

He began to move. Deep, driving thrusts that rocked her against the bulkhead. She took him eagerly, her hips meeting his, her thighs tight around his waist. She was wetter than the others, her arousal leaking down his shaft with each stroke, her inner walls gripping him like a living thing. Her head fell back, and he could feel the pulse in her throat, the way her breath caught and released in rhythm with his thrusts.

She climaxed quickly—a sudden, shuddering release that tore a cry from her lips. But he did not stop. He kept moving, driving her through the aftershocks into a second wave, and then a third, each one more intense, leaving her trembling and sobbing against his shoulder. Only when she was spent, limp and weeping with pleasure, did he let himself go, spilling deep inside her with a groan that shook his chest.

He held her there for a long moment, their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling. She touched his filed teeth with her fingertip, tracing their points as if memorizing them. The gesture was soft, almost delicate.

Then he set her down, and she stood on shaking legs, and she did not let go of his hand.

The tall woman with the keloid scars watched from the shadows, her hatchets still in her hands. She said nothing.

Above them, the ladder to the deck waited.

Zugonda coiled the chain around his forearm, checked the loads in both pistols, and started up.

The cafe-au-lait woman followed, her hand in his, her fingers laced through his like she was afraid he might dissolve into mist. Her palm was damp with sweat, her grip fierce, and every few steps she pressed closer to his side as if to reassure herself that he was still there, still solid, still warm. Her other hand she kept pressed to her own chest, over her heart, as though she could feel it beating from the outside.

She stumbled once on a patch of greasy deck, and he caught her elbow, steadying her. She looked up at him then, her brown eyes wide and wet, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Instead she simply nodded, once, and let him guide her onward.

Her body moved against his with each step—the soft curve of her hip brushing his thigh, the firm press of her shoulder against his bicep. She was shorter than the tall woman with the hatchets, more softly built, and her skin gave off a gentle heat that he could feel even through the cool air of the passage. The smell of her—that earthy musk overlaid with the sharper tang of fear-sweat—clung to his nostrils, and he found himself breathing deeper, taking her in.

She felt him do it. She looked at him again, her lips parting, and a flush spread across her cafe-au-lait cheeks. Her grip on his hand tightened.

Behind them, the tall woman with the keloid scars watched in silence, her hatchets still in her hands, her bare feet silent on the sticky planks. She said nothing, but her eyes moved between them, taking in the way the cafe-au-lait woman pressed herself against the warrior's side, the way her body seemed to seek his without conscious thought.

They reached the ladder, and Zugonda stopped. He turned to face the cafe-au-lait woman, and she looked up at him with those dark, liquid eyes. She reached up and touched his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth where his filed teeth showed. Her fingers traced the sharp points, and she shivered, but she did not pull away.

She pressed her forehead against his chest and stood there, breathing him in, her body trembling against his. Then she stepped back, straightened her shoulders, and waited.